How to Be Single

by Liz Tuccillo

  “Strippers?” I asked, surprised. “There’s strippers?”

  “Didn’t Steve tell you? That’s why all the women come here at eight. To eat free food and see the strippers.”

  I was aghast.

  “So you mean all this is, is a French Chippendales? Steve made it sound like the women came here to make new friends.”

  The women all grimaced. “Please,” elegant Patrice sniffed. “Who needs to do that?”

  So maybe we’re not so different after all. We went to the dance floor and checked out the action. I might as well have been at the Hunk-o-Rama in Brooklyn. The two men dancing were taking off their flowing robes until they were in nothing but itty-bitty g-strings. Then they pulled two women out of the audience and sat them on chairs on the dance floor and began dancing and rubbing their Jean-Pierres in these women’s faces. All the women in the club were screaming and cheering. These women were making friends all right. I couldn’t wait to tell Steve. Where had all the cool, detached Parisian attitude gone? It was a good lesson. Sometimes even French women need to strip off their pride and go whoop it up for a night.

  About an hour later, we walked upstairs to leave as hordes of men were charging in like bulls out of the pen. Outside was now a mob of men desperately trying to get in.

  “This is ingenious. You let in only the most beautiful women, give them free food and drinks, get them loose and crazy with strippers, then send in the men and charge them tons of money. It’s diabolical,” I said as we walked out of the club, the cool air hitting my face.

  “You have to meet the owner, Thomas. He’s a bit of a celebrity here. He owns three restaurants and two nightclubs, plus many other venues all over the world. He’s very interesting,” Clara said, elbowing her way through the crowd. “And he’s my brother,” she added.

  “Your brother?” I asked, surprised.

  “How do you think we got in tonight?” Clara asked. I tried not to take that personally. “I know he’s here. I just texted him to come out and say hello. He would be good for you to talk to. He has some very interesting theories on the subject.” Clara scanned the crowd. “Thomas! Viens ici! Over here!”

  Now how I remember it is that the crowd began to part in slow motion as a tall, slim man emerged out of the sea of people. He had short, black wavy hair with pale skin and shimmering blue eyes. He looked like royalty. I took one look at him and thought, Dashing. This is what they mean when they talk about dashing.

  “Thomas, this is the woman I told you about, who is doing research on women and being single,” Clara said, politely speaking in English.

  “Ah, yes,” Thomas said, looking right at me. “So, what did you think of my night here?”

  “I think you’re an evil genius,” I said, smiling. He laughed.

  “This is very accurate. An evil genius, yes.” He looked at me. “And why are you doing this? Tell me.”

  “For a book that I’m writing. About single women? About how to be…single?” I sounded like an idiot.

  “Ah! So much about single women in the States! Relationships, that’s much more interesting.”

  “Um…yes, but single women are interesting, too.”

  “Yes, but sometimes a bit obsessive, don’t you think?”

  I felt this perfect stranger was insulting me and I didn’t really know how to defend myself.

  “So what is the problem? Too many single women and no men? Is that it?” He couldn’t have made it sound more trite if he had tried.

  “Well, yes, I guess that’s the main problem, yes. I’m not sure.”

  He continued on: “But you American women, you idealize marriage so much. Every movie, there’s a wedding in it. Or some man is running off a pier or getting in a helicopter to propose to the woman he loves. It’s infantile, really.”

  My eyebrows raised. “As opposed to the French films where everyone is cheating on everyone?”

  “That’s reality. That’s complications. That’s life.”

  “Well, if you don’t like it, I guess you can always stop watching bad American films…” I responded, quickly.

  “But it helps me feel superior,” he said, smiling.

  “It doesn’t seem like you have a problem with that,” I said, glaring at him a bit.

  Thomas burst out laughing. “Ah, good for you, Miss Single Woman. Good for you!” He then put his hand on my shoulder, apologetically.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant to say, everything is changing. All over the world. It’s very difficult to understand what any of it means anymore, single, marriage, any of it. No?”

  I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. “I live in America. We don’t really know what’s going on all over the world.”

  “Well, then it is perfect that you are taking this trip, isn’t it?” he said, his blue eyes sparkling at me. “Have dinner with me. I will explain to you more. I love discussing these things.”

  Startled, I turned to Clara to see if I had heard him wrong. Clara laughed. “I told you, he has a lot to say on the subject.” I didn’t know how to respond. Thomas took that as a yes, and I guess it was.

  “Come. I’ll take you to another club of mine.”

  We got out of Thomas’s car and walked a half a block to a nondescript town house. He pressed the buzzer and a gentleman in a suit and tie answered the door. He greeted Thomas deferentially and ushered us into a dark, elegant room with a long wooden bar and crystal chandelier. Opposite the bar, well-dressed people were seated eating dinner and drinking champagne on black leather banquettes with a golden brass railing separating them from the rest of the room.

  “This is your place as well?” I asked, impressed.

  “It is.”

  “Well, this is quite different from men in g-strings and lukewarm tortellini,” I joked. We sat down at a little banquette in the corner.

  “Yes,” Thomas said, smiling as if he had a secret. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening; why Thomas had invited me out or what we were doing there. But who really cared? This was a fantastic way to spend my first night in Paris. As the champagne arrived, I dove right in.

  “So, was there anything else mildly insulting you wanted to say about American single women? Or were you done?” I was trying to be sassy but cute.

  Thomas shook his head and laughed. “I’m sorry if you found me insulting. I will try and behave myself from now on.” He looked around the club. “I invited you here to give you a different perspective. To show you that everyone is trying to figure it out. There are no easy answers to any of it.”

  “Wow. In the few minutes you’ve known me, I’ve shown myself to be that ignorant? Thank you for being so concerned with my world perspective.”

  “We French have to do what we can.” Thomas looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. I blushed. I couldn’t help it, but I did. He was fantastic.

  “For instance, I have an open marriage.”

  “Excuse me?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Yes. An open marriage, is how I think you Americans describe it.”

  “Oh. That’s interesting.”

  “It’s one way to go, to deal with this problem.”

  “What problem?” I asked. The waiter brought us tiny cups of some kind of thick, warm amuse-bouche soup.

  “Of boredom, of stagnation, of resentment.”

  “And you solve that by sleeping with other people?”

  “No. We solve that by making no rules for ourselves. By being open to life. When you get married, you tell each other that from that day forward, you will never be allowed to have sex with someone else, to feel passion, to explore a spark, an attraction. You are beginning the murder of a part of your essential nature. The part that keeps you alive.”

  “But…doesn’t that make things complicated?”

  “Yes, sometimes very much so. But as I said, that is reality. That is life.”

  “I don’t understand. Do you just say, ‘Hey, honey, I’m going out to have sex with
someone else, see you later…’”

  “No. We are polite. You must be polite. But for instance, right now I know my wife has a boyfriend. He is not so important to her; she sees him once a week or less. If it truly bothered me, she would be done with him.”

  “But it doesn’t bother you?”

  “It is just sex. Just passion. It is life.”

  I downed my champagne. “It sounds like a little too much life for me. You’re giving me a headache.” The waiter came and took our orders.

  Thomas smiled mischievously. “For example: this club. We have a very nice restaurant. But upstairs, it is a place where people can have sex.”

  “Um. What?” Thomas poured more champagne into my glass.

  “You heard me. It’s what you call a sex club—for couples. Everyone must come in with a partner.”

  “You mean, these people, all around us, are going to go upstairs later and…with each other?”

  “Most likely, yes.” Thomas looked at me. He became quite polite. “I don’t want to offend you; I just thought you’d be interested to know.”

  “No. I’m very interested. I am. I’ve never had dinner at a sex club before…”

  Thomas then looked down at his hands, folded at the table. He looked up at me. “If you want to take a tour, I’d be happy to show you around.”

  I looked straight at Thomas. He shrugged his shoulders. I believed it was a bit of a dare. And I hate backing down from a dare. And besides, it’s all in the name of research, right?

  I took another gulp of my champagne and set down my glass with purpose. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  We got up. Thomas and I walked toward the bar area. It was only then that I noticed the television at the bar was showing women in lingerie, dancing. Thomas took my hand and walked me toward a dark corner of the room. There I could see a spiral staircase, with a delicate iron railing. He looked at me for a moment and smiled. We began to walk up it, slowly. I have to admit, I was curious. And slightly nervous. When we landed on the second floor, I looked around. I could see it was a long, dark room, but couldn’t make out much else. Thomas walked me over to the men’s room right by the stairs. Okay, it’s a men’s room. Then, the women’s room. Nice bouquet of flowers by the sink, whatever. And then he opened a door.

  “This is the shower room.” I peeked in and saw a large tiled room with a single showerhead in the middle of it.

  “It fits six.” I stood there staring, until he took my shoulders and pointed me toward the other end of the floor. We passed a room with no door, and which had a giant platform bed in it. No one was in there. We began to walk down the center of the long room. It was then that I started hearing, um, noises. The lighting was low, but what I think I saw, and I couldn’t testify to this under oath, but what I think I saw, was three people on one side of a large platform having sex. The only woman, I believe, was on her back, spread-eagled. On the other side of the room there was a couple having sex against a wall. I put my head down, and tried not to let out a shocked American gasp. At the end of the room, there was another staircase, thankfully, leading down. As I descended, I could hear Thomas laughing behind me.

  “You’re lucky. Things haven’t really started up yet.”

  “I’m not going to act shocked, no matter how much I am,” I said, laughing.

  “And that is why I find you so appealing, Miss Tough New Yorker.”

  As we sat back down, our dinner arrived. I was now very curious. “Now tell me what’s so great about that idea,” I asked, my elbows firmly on the table, my whole body leaning in.

  Thomas shrugged. “It’s one way people are trying to keep their marriages exciting.”

  “By sleeping with other people in front of each other?” I asked a little sarcastically.

  Thomas suddenly turned serious, speaking to me as if I were a rude, slightly dim child.

  “Julie, have you ever slept with someone for over three years? Over ten years? Over twenty years? Someone you share a bed with every night, have children with, the diapers, the illnesses, the homework, the tantrums, hearing about their bullshit work problems, every day, in and out?”

  I was shamed and silenced. I hate the “what’s the longest you’ve been in a relationship” card. But he had a point. I felt like a pilgrim. A very immature pilgrim.

  “Then, how can you judge?” he said, softening. I drank some more champagne and looked around at all the proper people. I couldn’t help but imagine them upstairs without their pearls and silk shirts and wool jackets doing God knows what to one another.

  “Isn’t this just asking for trouble? Don’t you have a lot of divorces that come out of this place?”

  “On the contrary. Most of these couples have been coming here for years.”

  “No pun intended,” I said. Thomas gave me a sympathetic smile.

  “I thought Paris was supposed to be such a romantic place, and tonight all I’m hearing about is sex.”

  “No, Julie. You are hearing about people who are trying to keep their love alive. As opposed to you Americans who get fat and stop sleeping with each other, or lie to each other and have affairs with their neighbors.”

  “You make us sound like one big Jerry Springer episode.”

  “I exaggerate to make a point,” he said, smiling. “What I am saying is that marriage is not the only way to go. And a monogamous marriage is not the only way to be married. Everything is moving toward freedom, in whatever form that takes. Being single is going to be just one of many life choices.”

  “But come on, wouldn’t most people agree it’s better to be in love and in a relationship than not?”

  “Yes, definitely. But how many people do you know that are in a relationship and in love?”

  Of course, I’ve thought about this before. “Not that many.”

  Thomas folded his hands in front of him, very professorially. “There are only two interesting lives you can lead, in my opinion. You can be in love. That, to me, is very interesting. And you can be single. Also, a very interesting life. The rest is bullshit.”

  I understood exactly what he meant.

  “Are you in love with your wife?” I asked, deciding to be nosy.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  A surprising pang of disappointment hit my chest.

  “And we try not to become bored of each other. Because we are in love. And because of that, it’s a very interesting life. For instance, the minute you called me an evil genius, I wanted to spend more time with you. Because you seemed funny and interesting and you are beautiful.”

  I started to sweat a little.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not in love with my wife, or that I don’t want to be married to her. It just means that I’m a man and I am alive.”

  I tried to make a joke. “Listen, if you think that kind of talk is going to get me into that jungle gym upstairs you better think again.”

  Thomas laughed. “No, no, Julie. Tonight, I am just enjoying your company. Entirely.” He looked at me, shyly. I could almost swear I saw him blush.

  “You know, I think the jet lag is kicking in a little,” I blurted out, awkwardly. Thomas nodded.

  “Of course, this is your first night in Paris. You must be quite tired.”

  “Yes. Yes I am.”

  Thomas pulled up in front of Steve’s apartment and turned off the engine. I suddenly got very nervous, not knowing what to expect next from this French fellow. “So, thank you for the ride and the champagne and the sex, I mean you know, the eye-opening…you know…” I was stammering a little.

  Thomas smiled at me, amused at my awkwardness.

  “I believe you will be going to the opera on Tuesday and then to the gala? Yes?”

  “What? Oh yes, Steve mentioned it. He’s conducting.”

  “Fantastic. I will be there with my wife. I will see you then.”

  And with that he got out of the car and opened my door for me. Besides the whole showing-me-people-having-a-three-way, he was the perfect gentleman. He kiss
ed me on both cheeks and sent me on my way.

  Back in the States

  They all got dressed up for the funeral. It was a happy occasion after all. Serena’s old self of ego and desire and attachment to this material world was about to die, and Georgia, Alice, and Ruby agreed to all go to the funeral to celebrate. It was ninety minutes out of the city, at an ashram near New Paltz, New York, and Georgia had offered to drive. Ruby was late to meet them at the garage, because she is always late, which immediately irritated both Alice and Georgia, because they are never late and they didn’t want to be driving up to New Paltz to watch Serena become a swami in the first place. But they had promised me, and though they weren’t about to take a vow of celibacy at the altar of Siva, they did worship at the altar of friendship and keeping promises.

  At first, there was an uncomfortable silence in the car. It was nine in the morning, they were all tired and cranky, and none had any idea what they were about to get themselves into. However, if you know anything about women, you know that something about the confinement and intimacy of a car will eventually get even cranky ladies gabbing.

  Alice soon began laying out for Georgia her belief system for being single. She verbally drew for Georgia all the maps and diagrams that spelled out the basic tenets of her dating dogma: You have to get out there, you have to get out there, you have to get out there. As they drove up 87, Alice taught Georgia about Nerve.com and Match.com, about not spending too much time emailing these guys, but instead making a date for drinks or coffee, never dinner. She taught Georgia about immediately deleting the guys who use sexual innuendo in the first couple of emails and not feeling bad if she doesn’t want to respond to guys she feels are too old, short, or unattractive for her.

  As Georgia exited the Thruway, and started driving along tree-lined roads and past farms and cows and goats, Alice told her about rock climbing at Chelsea Piers, about kayaking and trapezing on the West Side Highway. She explained to her about the hottest clubs and bars and what nights you should go where.

  Georgia, already on a steady IV of panic and mania, really didn’t need any more pumping up. Though it was only an hour and a half in an Acura driving upstate, it could well have been forty-eight hours trapped in a Motel 6 with a bunch of Scientologists depriving you of sleep, food, and phone calls. By the time they pulled up in front of the Jayananda Meditation Center, Georgia was fully brainwashed on the Gospel according to Alice and she was hooked.